


à minuit

by smithens



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Fade to Black, M/M, Seduction, Suspiciously Inaccurate Clocks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 04:25:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10506285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Having had his advances rejected and thus become distracted from reading poetry, Combeferre would just like to go home.But it's late, and Jean Prouvaire has other ideas.





	

"It is surely nearing midnight.”

The mantel clock on the bedside table - inordinate, gilded, and framed by two sculpted nymphs in black patina - told the time as seven minutes until midnight, in fact, but from experience Combeferre had learned that Jean Prouvaire's timepieces could not always be trusted. As it was, the sun had set hours ago, and earlier in the day he had promised himself that he would call upon a dear friend in the morning.

The next day was Wednesday, which made the visit possible, but as a day free of tasks or obligations, it was unlikely that Guillaume would be simple to find. Thus, to visit with him meant waking early, as he knew that the search could take a great deal of walking and talking before success. (He had ideas, of course: cafés he frequented, shops his peers did - but the men of the Polytechnique were not always predictable. That, Combeferre knew well.)

If he wanted any sleep at all, he would need to depart soon.

“Prouvaire,” he said softly.

But Jean Prouvaire, if he had heard Combeferre's words, showed no sign of it: he maintained the drumming of his fingers along Combeferre’s hip, a self-accompaniment on a tune he’d been humming since they’d stopped sharing their book.

Combeferre sighed quietly, but did not move. "I ought to be going, so much as I wish I could stay," he continued, more firm this time, and a bit louder. The hour was late - but their apartments in the Latin Quarter were not so far apart. With the lamps illuminated, the walk was not so bad. (Certainly he had taken it before, and been fine - though, he had not ever done so at quite this hour, nor while still hazy from an evening soirée, to his recollection.)

Beside him, Jean Prouvaire laughed momentarily before he slung his arm across Combeferre's waist and tugged him closer, stroking his hip in the process.

Combeferre, having already attempted a seduction and been unsuccessful, did not know what to make of that.

"I shan't allow you to walk across Paris at this hour, good Combeferre, no matter whom you've plans to meet with in the morning," Prouvaire replied finally, his slight and timid voice low in pitch but very bright. _Across Paris_ , thought Combeferre.

Though he was turned away from him, Combeferre suspected that Prouvaire was smiling as he spoke. "My wonderful friend, you will stay here, with me, in my bed. What we have left of Les Tragiques can be put off in the spirit of slumber, I think. Ad libitum."

As though they had truly been reading it. (The book had laid open at the foot of the bed for at the least half an hour.)

As though they would go to sleep at once, if Combeferre did not leave. (They would continue what they were doing that had led to the abandonment of the d'Aubigné anyhow - admittedly a much needed continuation, in Combeferre’s own opinion.)

Jean Prouvaire shifted, and then he began to move his hand across Combeferre's abdomen with a soft, soothing pressure in a repetition of Combeferre’s own attempt at advances.

He could not suppress his hum of satisfaction at the feeling: Prouvaire was gentle, but particular, and the twist of his fingers in the thick fabric of his winter night shirt coupled with the incessant rub of his palm prompted in Combeferre a vague and pleasant sensation.

And then he released the fabric and brought his hand lower along Combeferre's body, aligning his touches more with the broad curve of his hips.

"It would be negligent of me to turn you out now," continued Prouvaire, rubbing his knuckles against the top of Combeferre's thigh, and after a moment, its inner side.

Combeferre shuddered, and then laughed aloud: his own sensitivity always surprised him.

"Negligent, Prouvaire?" he said, a little breathless. His head was swimming; Jean Prouvaire had pulled up his already disheveled nightshirt further and was brushing his fingers rhythmically against his inner thigh, closer and closer to his groin. At this, Combeferre hummed again, this time making effort to express his appreciation more overtly. "I am meeting my - not someone unimportant, tomorrow. You know this. Negligent to me, or you?"

“To you, of course.”

Prouvaire spoke with a blitheness in his timid voice. Combeferre could not bring himself to argue - not after Prouvaire had moved his hands to push his nightshirt to his neck, begun swirling his fingers along Combeferre’s ribs in a gentle, pleasurable manner but avoiding the places that Combeferre truly desired he touch.

“The night is dark, Combeferre. A great many things wander in darkness, and they may have a penchant for men whom I have already undressed and entreated to stay by my side… it would be cruel of me to turn you out so. But, perhaps I am wrong. Negligent to me, also, my dearest fellow. I like you better when you finish what you begin.”

“Neither of us have finished with our reading.”

“- oh, I am always reading so many things at once. In any case, we were not near to its end before you thought you’d interrupt -”

“I like to read books in as few sittings as possible, Jean Prouvaire. Surely that you can accommodate - for after all, you did say that to read the Agrippa with me would bring you great joy.”

Prouvaire then decided either that that was a satisfactory answer or that Combeferre was simply not understanding his needs, because he sat all the way up, plucked the book from its place on the edge of the bed, and opened it up again to where they had left off…

...but said nothing, and held the book at an angle which Combeferre was unable to benefit from, being nude and lying on his back.

“You have read it already.”

These words (this whining) did nothing to remedy the situation; in fact, Prouvaire shifted to an even more inconvenient position, seated on his heels with the book in his lap. A clock in the room sounded a bell, and then another, before ceasing: but whether it was two after midnight or not, Combeferre knew distinctly that he would not be leaving after all.

Not if Prouvaire was to continue his behaviour, at least.

… and it stood, of course, that he had not spoken to his friend for some time, and that he was not guaranteed to see him the next day, that his feelings were no longer those supported by reason, but by sentiment and nostalgia alone. And it stood, too, that he had developed if nothing else a rapport with Jean Prouvaire.

“To be stubborn is uncouth, Jean Prouvaire,” said Combeferre, with a tone of finality.

“Then, you will stay, as you wished, for it is a heinous thing, to be uncouth. And I myself should not like to be negligent.”  
Prouvaire settled as he spoke, and finally placed the book upon the bedside stool.

Of course, it was not his own nature upon which Combeferre had wished to comment, but Jean Prouvaire’s: steadfast even within moments where his thoughts trailed along behind him.

Combeferre knew very well that Prouvaire had been dealt a great quantity of cognizance in addition to his gift of a sensitive temperament. His supposed lack of awareness was an air which he put on to accompany the desire to tease.  
Somehow, Combeferre had ceased to mind.

“Besides, it is charming that you were so inspired by such poetry. Why! You, who creates noble futures in your head, who thus dreams of civilisation, and whom civilisation can only dream of, prior to the realization of your deeds in her honor. You conjure prose, and never verse, but all is fantastic...”

Combeferre closed his eyes as Prouvaire pulled back the blankets, shuddered at the caresses below his navel. The thrill of this was more than he had anticipated; whatever willpower still remained in him fell faint enough as to be unnoticeable.<

“My love, my Combeferre - I think a man who cannot fathom your dreams and your philosophies is not worthy of your praise, let alone your attentions so early in the morning.”

“Do you insult the preferences of every man you take to bed?”

Prouvaire’s hand wandered lower, nearer to Combeferre’s cock, but before he could touch Combeferre took his wrist in his hand. He rubbed his thumb along the ridge at his forearm, took pleasure in the shiver that followed.

“I believe perchance it was you who took me to my own bed - but, alas for me, I have not ever been taken with a man so delightfully chimerical as you.”

Prouvaire paused to press his lips to the join of Combeferre’s hip and leg, now uncovered. Combeferre himself released his hold upon Jean Prouvaire’s arm, pressed his heels against the mattress, legs spread a little, in hopes of maintaining his bearings.

“Nor ever a woman,” the former added, lowering his head to press a kiss at Combeferre’s inner thigh. Combeferre stiffened.

“And I do think it is woman that is more-”

“Don’t let’s speak of others, Jean Prouvaire.”

In record time he obliged, falling silent as took Combeferre in his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> I picture this taking place early on in their knowing one another - but not so early they're too unfamiliar to have Benefits, ahem. 1826 or so.
> 
> [find me on tumblr as [smithensy](http://smithensy.tumblr.com/)]


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